From Ghoulies and Ghosties
by kototyph
Summary: The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. Featuring 'Denmark and Prussia Go to Whi- no, the Liquor Store', LindaBlair!Iceland, DrunkZombie!Belarus, Turkey-nomming Greek cats, and much, much more.
1. PROLOGUE

**From Ghoulies and Ghosties**  
la-russophile  
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia  
» Rating: T  
» On Going(WIP)/One-off/Series: WIP  
» Classification(s): Action/Adventure, Supernatural, Humor  
» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations  
» Pairing(s): The usual suspects.  
» Summary: The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. May seem like pure crack at times, but all of these things have happened to me or people I know.

* * *

_Scotland takes his cigarette out of his mouth for the two seconds it takes to say:_

"_From Ghoulies and Ghosties  
__and Long-Leggity Beasties  
__and Things that Go Bump in the Night  
__Good Lord, Deliver Us!  
__-Scottish proverb, bitches."_

_and then puts it right back in._

* * *

PROLOGUE

* * *

(A/N: Please indulge me a bit with this prologue, I know it's a bit silly. :-) No, the Baltics + Poland are not the main characters of this fic. No, they will probably not show up again. So, why here? Those of you who scratch your head over this introduction may want to check out this video: http:/ www. spike. com /video /michael-jackson /2714844 [remove spaces].)

* * *

On a deserted stretch of moonlight-dappled country road, a tiny blue convertible slowly sputtered to a slow stop. As the sound of the engine died, the somewhat eerie warbles and shrieks of the nighttime forest returned in full force. The two occupants sat in silence for a moment, the driver's attitude apologetic, the passenger's deeply, deeply annoyed.

"Honestly, we're out of gas!" the driver finally burst out. He was a young man, brunette, with lighter eyes and a solemn, almost sad expression.

The passenger, a blond, just looked at him. "So? What're we gonna, like, do now?"

The answer, it seemed, was walk.

"I'm like, totally sorry I didn't believe you," the blond said apologetically as he picked his way down the invisible road next to the brunette. His skirt made it difficult. The other man shrugged, but after a few more minutes abruptly stopped and turned to him.

"Can I, er, ask you something?"

The blond tilted his head. "Like, what?"

The brunette paused for so long that the blond was about to repeat his question, but the other man suddenly shot out. "You know I like you, don't you."

It was not a question, but the blond answered anyway. "Totes," he said, smiling slightly.

The brunette managed to drag his eyes off his shoes, and up to the blond's face. "And I hope you like me, the way I like you."

His smile widened. "Yes."

"I was wondering if," the brunette gulped. "You'dbemygirl."

"Oh,_ Toris_," the blond sighed sweetly, reaching out and grabbing him with a little squeal of joy. He pulled but just as quickly, but kept ahold of Toris's hands, their fingers entwined. On the blond's left ring finger, a dazzling silver band had appeared. "It's, like, fantabulously beautiful."

"Now it's official." Toris took a deep breath, and a firmer grip on the blond's hands. "I have something I want to tell you."

The blond, still grinning like an idiot, said, "Yeah, Toris?"

Toris stared earnestly into his eyes. "I'm not like other guys."

The blond laughed. "Duh, like of course not! That's why I love you."

"No," Toris said, with more force. "I mean I'm different."

The blond's grin began to fade. "Dude, like, what the heck are you talking about?"

Almost as he spoke, the moonlight marbling the forest floor grew suddenly brighter as the dark clouds that had obscured it parted.

The effect on Toris was instanantous. He began to shake, a moan of pain breaking from his lips before he doubled over.

The blond grabbed his shoulder. "Are you alright? Got the vom or something?"

Toris gave a huge, shuddering sigh and lifted his head. "_Stay away_!"

His face had transformed utterly, features rippling and changing nauseatingly quickly as they sprouted dark, dark fur. His beautiful green eyes had become blank disks of murderous gold, and they rolled in his head like blind marbles.

The blond began to scream, helplessly, as the face of the man he loved ran like wax. The man began to lurch to a standing position, and then to shamble forward, and the blond turned and fled, running blindly through the dark forest. Sobbing, he flung branches from him in terror as all too near, the howl of the lonely beast echoed after him.

The blond stumbled into a clearing and shrieked, the terrifying spectacle of the fully transformed Toris leaping to meet him and tackling him to the ground.

Feliks recoiled from the screen as the camera zoomed in for a close up of the horrifying monster's snarling, drooling jaws. The thing fell out of sight of the camera and presumably began messily disemboweling the hero and the screams went on, and on. The Pole's dainty pink fingernails digging hard into his neighbor's arm, and the real Toris absently whispered, "Ow," before pulling another handful of popcorn from the greasy bag in his lap.

In a soft, pleading voice, the Polish nation asked, "Can we, like, puh-_lease_ get _out_ of here?"

Toris, who until this point had been completely absorbed in the film, looked at him incredulously. "No way! I'm really enjoying this."

Feliks shot him a glare that singed and snapped, "Well, I can't watch!" He ducked out of his seat and into the aisle.

Toris sat for a moment, eyes flicking from the bright screen in front of him to Feliks's ramrod straight back and angrily swishing poodle skirt as he strode up the stairs to the exit. Then the Lithuanian sighed, and rose as well, slowly trailing after the irate Pole.

Eduard was too used to dramatic scenes like this for it to draw his attention too far away from a good movie. Using the newly empty seat beside him to hold his ownpopcorn, he was about to return to Vincent Price's masterpiece and his Sno Caps when he made the critical mistake of glancing over at his other neighbor. Raivis's tearstained, desperate look said it all, and in the end the two Baltic nations followed their friends out of the movie early. Eduard rationalized his wasted money by thinking, _Well, at least it's late enough that we have very definitely missed Ameerika's party._

* * *

I'm going to try to get the rest of the chapters out (there will be three plus an epilogue) by November 3rd. YES I AM. GO TEAM ME. NEVER MIND THAT I NEVER UPDATE ANYTHING ON TIME, I WILL MAKE THIS HAPPEN. X'D And because I'm trying to get it out so fast, there will be general grammar/spelling errors and such. It's unavoidable~!


	2. From Ghoulies and Ghosties

**From Ghoulies and Ghosties**  
la-russophile  
» Summary: The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. May seem like pure crack at times, but all of these things have happened to me or people I know.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE: From Ghoulies and Ghosties

* * *

"Alfred, _quello che un tempo meraviglioso ! ! !"_

The American received Feliciano's flying tackle-hug with grace, using the momentum of the jump to spin them in lopsided circles around his black-and-orange decorated foyer. The bloody lab coat the Italian was wearing flapped around them dramatically. "Hey, Ita-chan, _mi casa es tu casa_, right? You're welcome anytime!"

"That is Spanish," Ludwig said pedantically. He was holding Feliciano's winter jacket and tapping a booted foot impatiently. Somehow, all the moss-green paint and fake stitches covering his exposed skin only gave him a more, rather than less, austere aura. "Feli, your coat." He shook it pointedly.

Feliciano released Alfred and pushed his fake glasses back up his nose, obediently tottering over to the German. "Call me Dr. Frankenstein, Signore Monstro."

Ludwig sighed heavily. "Please put your arms in the sleeves, _Doktor_ Frankenstein."

"You guys _could_ stay longer," Alfred said with a little pout, readjusting his hockey mask where it was tied on the side of his head. He loved hosting Halloween parties, especially Halloween parties that lasted into All Saints Day. "It's super lame to go home before midnight at least."

Ludwig looked up from forcing the tipsy Italian's limbs into the proper openings and fixed Alfred with an incredulous stare. "You must be joking. _Mein Bruder_ and the Dane have been trying to outdrink Braginsky all night, and I for one am leaving before things begin burning. Also, Roderich was kind enough to watch the house and I don't want to keep him and Elizaveta."

"Signore Ludwig-Monster, you're sexy even though you're green~~" slurred the bespectacled Italian, and stood on tiptoe to give him a smacking kiss. "Heehee! Ooooo, my head is spinny. Spinny spinny. _Girevole~ ve, ve, Doistu_~"

The German flushed and scowled, moving to quickly button up the front of the coat while Feliciano wrapped his arms around his neck and babbled happily in Italian. Alfred gave a knowing smirk and said, "Oh, yeah, sure you don't."

Ludwig finished and, much to the drunken _Doktor_ Frankenstein's delight, scooped the Italian into his arms. He turned to the American. "Thank you for the lovely evening, Alfred, and _guten Nacht_. We'll be sure to invite you for _Fastnacht _(1)."

Alfred slapped him on the back and got the door for them, his breath fogging immediately in the unseasonably cool night. "Thanks for coming, guys! See you in a couple weeks at the next summit!"

Feliciano bounced and waved energetically in Ludwig's arms, burbling, "_Buonanotte! Buonanotte!_" all the way to the curb. Ludwig almost dropped him as he fumbled for his keys in his pocket.

"Nighty-night!" Alfred closed the door on the German's frustrated curse and checked the candy level in the red-eyed skull bowl next to the door. Mmm, there were still 100 Grand Bars, he loved those things. He unwrapped one and wandered back into the hall, absently grabbing his chainsaw from where he'd leaned it against the wall. He walked towards the only room left lit in the house and the excited shouts of his remaining guests.

As Alfred drew level with the dark, deserted kitchen, a ghostly white figure appeared in the empty doorway. "HOLY—!" He jumped into the wall behind him with a shriek, chainsaw up and ready.

"Al?" Matthew, wearing dog ears and peeved expression, stared at him over another tray of multicolored jello brain shots.

Alfred clutched at his heart dramatically. "Shit, you scared the crap out of me! And you've smeared your whiskers, by the way."

His brother rolled his eyes. "Francis smeared the whiskers. Here, take one."

"Don't mind if I do."

As they proceeded together down the hallway, Alfred sucked down the fluorescent-green blob and said with his mouth full of alcoholic limey goodness, "'Ey, M'bbie?"

"Yeah?"

He swallowed convulsively. "Yum. Have Gil and Mathias (2) been trying to outdrink the commie bastard?"

"Damn Russian's got to have a limit," the Canadian muttered darkly. His brief scowl, combined with the ears and doggy facepaint, combined to make the cutest angry face imaginable.

"Huh?" Alfred looked over, brows crinkled. He was generally oblivious to cuteness, as he was to most things.

Scowl disappearing as if never there, Matthew only smiled guilelessly back at him. "No, not that I've noticed!"

They reached the source of the raucous noise, and entered the library.

After the buffet and punch bowls in the dining suite had been razed down to the skeleton-printed plastic tablecloths, the party had mostly retreated to the smaller, cozier library, where there was more booze and a louder sound system. The speakers were currently blasting 'Monster Mash' for perhaps the fiftieth time of the evening, but no one was paying attention. Kumajirou had gotten into the 'Spooktacular' black chips and 'Graveyard' guacamole, but no one paid attention to that, either.

The handful left had pushed back the furniture for their more active (read violently soused) games, and now were playing something that seemed to be a strange mix of Truth or Dare, Never Have I Ever, and Gestures. They were also for some reason using Alfred's Apples to Apples cards to do it, or perhaps those were just out for earlier.

Matthew and Alfred had apparently reentered the room on Francis's turn, and the Frenchman was up and gesticulating wildly with a poker from the crackling fireplace. At some point in the night he'd taken off the three-foot-wide floppy hat with the huge ostrich plume, but the remaining acres of lace and ribbon and buckled boots still screamed Dumas.

Arthur, who Alfred had excitedly and repeatedly been mistaking for the Hamburglar the entire night, was slumped tiredly into the armchair closest to the fire, black cape all but swallowing his smaller frame. He had Alfred's Drambouie out and open, and as Alfred reseated himself between Mattie and Ivan, the Englishman swallowed a stiff third and interrupted Francis with, "If you're taking about the Battle of Agincort, I kicked your arse to kingdom come!"

Francis snorted and retorted, but Alfred had already stopped paying attention (he reserved the right to ignore history that predated him) and was trying to locate his gin and tonic in the forest of glasses that surrounded the Russian and, to a lesser extent, his sisters. "Damn it, where did it go?" Natalia was a dark, glowering presence in pure crystalline white from crown to slippers, isolated at the end of the couch from the rest of the party by Ivan's massive frame. Alfred was perfectly happy to keep it that way. She was sipping something thick and bloody-looking, and it turned her lips an unwholesome bergamot crimson.

Katerina, seated across from them and next to the voluble Francis, had been nursing her amaretto sour for the last hour, but until that point had been doing pretty well. She was pink-cheeked and giggling, almost popping out of her red heart-shaped bodice with each heaving breath.

Ivan, in keeping with their theme, was wearing a particolored cerulean top hat and tails ensemble. Occasionally, when Francis's eyes lingered for too long on Katya's bouncing bountiful tracks, the Russian would twirl a cane idly between his fingers and smile a bit madly. At Alfred's frustrated growl, he reached out and picked up a mostly empty highball glass identical to the twenty-odd other mostly empty highball glasses scattered around them and handed it to the American. Alfred sipped and tasted Hennessy. Damn, how did he do that?

The number of glasses and open bottles the Prussian and Dane had between them did not bear counting, but they were eager to add more. As Alfred leaned back to enjoy his recovered cocktail, they accosted him.

"_Hej_, Alfred," the Dane slurred, patting his arm several times. "Tell me, do you have any Gammel Dansk?" The paint covering his face, which had began the night as an atrocious smearing mess of white, black and red, was now if it was possible in an even worse state: all over his purple lapels and green tie, streaked through his hair, and dappling the surface of the low table in front of him. Incongruously, his tiny steepled hat remained perched perfectly on the part of his slicked-back hair.

"_Nein, nein, muth eth Jägermeister werden!_" the Prussian next to him insisted. His fake fangs and rather advanced state of drunkenness made him lisp noticeably.

The Dane waved him away dismissively. "Of course, it must be Gammel Dansk. Do you have it?"

"Er, no," Alfred said bemusedly. "What's wrong with what I bought?"

Gilbert glanced significantly at the Russian seated next to Alfred, whose attention was apparently wholly caught up in the argument brewing between Francis and Arthur, and waggled his eyebrows.

"We've tried everything else," the Dane said petulantly, folding his arms and smearing white across his chest. "_Øl, vin, vodka, cognac_ —"

"I was saving that," Alfred muttered.

"—but nothing's working. We obviously need good Danish bitters-"

"German bitterth," Gilbert insisted.

"—and so! Gilbert and I will go get them." The Dane leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Just keep him drinking."

Matthew, holding the unofficial fourth corner in their little tete-a-tete, asked sardonically, "And Everclear, I suppose, wouldn't work nearly as well? I think 191 is legal here."

The two nations just stared at him. "I'm thorry, who are you again?"

"It's _Canada_," the Canadian sighed. "Just bring me back some maple liquor."

Natalia, unnoticed by anyone and foreboding icy scowl still in place, slid slowly into a graceless heap on the floor.

The Dane slung an arm around Gilbert's thin shoulders and said more loudly, "Well, then, Gilly, let's go."

"Eh? Are you leaving?" Francis said, frowning. "_Mon Prusse_, not you too! Antonio at least has the excuse of Lovino."

Gilbert scowled at him. "_Halt die Klappe, _Franthith. We're picking up more alcohol."

The Frenchman's face cleared. "Ah, _une bonne chose toujours_. Please, more wine. A Carmenière this time."

Ivan smiled through it all. Alfred looked at his angelically innocent expression and knew without a doubt that the nation knew what they were up too and found the entire exercise greatly amusing, perhaps as amusing as he found scaring the Baltics—and in perhaps the same mean-spirited vein.

As they walked to the door, Alfred heard Gilbert ask, "Oi, Dänemark. Where did the retht of those _Fickerth_ you hang out with go?"

Mathias laughed, a chilling thing to behold with a deep red slash of paint across his lips from cheek to cheek. "Oh, Norge an' them? Those lame_røver!_ They're probably watching a movie or something. _Jeg er så glad for at jeg flygtede!"_

* * *

[_quello che un tempo meraviglioso – what a marvelous time; mi casa es tu casa – my house is your house; girevole – spinning; buonanotte – good night; hej – hey (pronounced the same); __Nein, nein, muss es Jägermeister warden – no, no it must be Jagermeister; __Øl, vin, vodka, cognac – beer, wine, vodka, cognac; __Halt die Klappe – shut up; une bonne chose toujours – always a good thing; Fickers – fuckers; __røver – asses; __Jeg er så glad for at jeg flygtede – I'm so glad I escaped_]

* * *

Tino watched a kneeling Lukas (3) finish setting out the drinks, mixers and liquors standing in a neat row down the center of their IKEA coffee table and asked bemusedly, "But didn't you not go to Amerika's party because Mathias said there'd be drinking?"

The stoic nation looked up at him. "I want to drink. I just don't want to drink with Anko."

"Annoying," Iceland added loyally. The brothers shared a nod, and Lukas rose to grab the plastic cups from the kitchen.

Berwald was on the couch, legs drawn up under him as he carefully examined the dustjacket of the old VHS tape the Norwegian had dug up from somewhere. The title, _Exorcisten_, was scrawled across the black background in bloody red print, the lone shadow of a man in a dark, dark alley the only other adornment. As Tino came to sit next to him, the Swede looked up with his customary scowl, tinged to the Fin's knowledgeable eyes with distinct discomfort.

"S'n 'Meric'n film," he offered after a bit, looking down and shrugging.

"Oh?" He hadn't really looked at it. "What year?"

"N'nt'n s'v'ny thr'."

"I think I saw it once. It's pretty scary."

His 'husband' fixed him with an utterly blank look that somehow still managed to convey a sense of growing panic. Tino made himself reach out and give the larger nation's shoulder a comforting pat, and instantly regretted it when the Swede seized his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Iceland appeared at their side with cups, and Tino accepted one and took a sip; his eyes watered a bit as the familiar fumes and sting of aquavit assaulted his senses.

"This is the game (4)," Lukas intoned emotionlessly. "You must drink every time a cross is shown, anyone bleeds, another language is seen or spoken, a priest is shown in uniform, the coin is shown, anyone swears, the little _jente_ and her _mor_ go to the doctor, anyone says _demon_, or anyone cries. _Er dette klart_?"

"Um," said Tino, looking doubtfully down at his aquavit. He'd seen the movie a long, long time ago, but even his hazy recollection suggested that following those rules would get them rather drunk rather quickly.

"Hn," grunted Berwald. His arms tightened minutely around Tino. With his legs framing the Fin's and his chin resting on the top of Tino's head, the Finnish nation was effectively surrounded.

"_God, god._" The Norwegian nodded at Iceland, who had a finger posed over the play button on their old machine. "_Bror_, start the movie."

After a bit of hissing static, the film began, eerie music swelling as the lights in a window winking out before the camera panned to a dark street corner. Iceland sat cross-legged on the ground next to the coffee table and close to the television. Tino felt Berwald twitch and his fingers dig painfully into his arms when Lukas flicked off the lights, and resigned himself to a long, long night of damage control.

* * *

[_Exorcisten – Exorcist; jente – girl; mor – mother; Er dette klart? – Is that clear?; bror – brother]_

* * *

"Preussen, did you see that?"

"Hah? What?"

Mathias pointed. "Over there. In the trees, I thought I saw—_Vent! Der!_"

Their epic quest for bitters, made all the more epic by the fact that they had forgotten to ask where the nearest liquor store was, had taken them beyond Alfred's cozy neighborhood and into the larger urban nightscape of his capital. At this point in the night, there were fewer people and fewer people out celebrating and the patch of boulevard they now wandered across was particularly deserted. It was lined with trees on both sides of a central cobblestone walkway, and the historically accurate lampposts some well-meaning civic servant had insisted on meant that the street was more in shadow than light.

They passed through the soft orange glow of one such lamp, and Gilbert saw the barely noticeable flicker of movement through the tree trunks just as the Dane shouted, "There, you see him? _Jeg kan se dig, din lille svin!_"

Gilbert grabbed the Dane's arm as he made to dash off after it. "Chill, Dänemark. It'th probably just a cat or thom— _MEINE FRETHE!_"

The maybe-movement he'd seen had been at least twenty feet away, so when someone leapt out at them from behind the nearest tree trunk the Prussian gained three feet of altitude and landed clutching Mathias. It didn't help that the person was dressed entirely in green, was wearing a thin black mask and was aiming an enormous crossbow at them.

"Who goes there?" the vision in green demanded pompously.

"Why so serious?" the Dane retorted with a huge, lopsided grin. He'd been assaulting people with the phrase all evening, as a required part of his costume.

"What the fuck, you thtupid fairy!" Gilbert lispingly screamed, from his piggyback position.

The bowman stared at them. "What?"

"Why so fucking _serious_, forest fairy?" Mathias repeated.

The fairy scowled. "I'm not a fucking fairy! And who the hell are you supposed to be, Ronald MacDonald on acid?"

The Dane just laughed. "Fuck you, forest fairy!"

Gilbert tugged the Dane's hair. "_Nein, nein_, Dänemark, he'th Robin Hood! Robin Hood!"

"Fuck you, Robin Hood!"

"I'm the fucking Green Arrow, you stupid fucks!"

"Who the hell is _that_?" they said practically in chorus, Gilbert sliding off Mathias's back and landing on his own with an "_Omph!_ Robin Hood!"

"The Green Arrow! _GREEN ARROW, _damn it! Do you not see the 'G' on my belt and the quiver FULL OF ARROWS? !"

"_Warte_, is that the black guy who doeth forthe fieldth?" wondered Gilbert from his position on the ground.

"That's the Green Lantern!"

"Fuck you, Green Lantern!" the Dane wheezed out around his laughter.

The Green Arrow brought the crossbow up, but the Dane kicked out and suddenly the weapon was sailing through the air, landing on the cobblestones with a sad dry crunching noise. "_Hej_, Robin Lanternhood, that's fucking dangerous!"

And that was when the Green Arrow jumped screaming out of the bushes with an ax.

* * *

[_Vent! Der! – Wait! There!; __Jeg kan se dig, din lille svin – I see you, you little bastard; MEINE FRESSE – equ. HOLY SHIT_]

* * *

Ten minutes into the movie, it finally occurred to Tino to ask, "Are we drinking every time anyone speaks in a different language, or just at each different language spoken?"

By the looks of things, the two western Scandinavian nations had adopted the former approach. Norway was already opening a new bottle and Iceland was quite noticeably having trouble finding the rim of his cup with his lips.

Lukas shrugged. "_Samme hva du velger_."

Iceland finally found the rim, but on the wrong side, so that his drink spilled down his chin to his chest. "Oops," he mumbled, cup dropping from his mouth to roll across the carpet.

Tino glanced at Lukas, but the Norwegian nation appeared to have missed the episode entirely. "Norja!"

"_Hva?_"

The Fin nodded significantly at the smaller nation, which might have been enough if Lukas had taken his eyes off the screen for a moment. A priest's white collar flashed across the screen, and he took a drink.

"Lukas, your brother!" Iceland was at this point struggling with the seal of another bottle, still dripping all over the place. "Maybe you should get him a washcloth or something?"

Lukas finally looked at him. "_Hei, bror, hva gjorde du?"_

Iceland looked vaguely apologetic. "_Fyrirgefðu…_"

"Let's go to the kitchen, then." The Norwegian took him by the hand and they left the room.

Tino looked up at Berwald's face and was not very reassured by what he saw. In the dim flickering light of the screen, the Swede sat motionless, attention utterly captured by the film. His eyes were a little wide behind his lenses, and the aquavit sat untouched in his hand. As Tino watched, someone screamed onscreen and the big nation jumped, drink sloshing over the rim to wet his hand and Tino's leg. "S-s'ry."

A jarring crash and Iceland's giggle rang out from the kitchen, and Tino winced. He gently took the drink away from Berwald and put it on the far side of the table, where he'd set his. The very last thing he wanted to deal with tonight was a Sweden as drunk as Iceland.

* * *

[_Samme hva du velger – do what you want; Norja – Norway; hva – what; Hei, bror, hva gjorde du? – hey, brother, what'd you do?; Fyrirgefðu - sorry_]

* * *

I might give you a prize if you can tell me everyone's costumes. :-)

Two more chapters and then an epilogue. I'm writing this all today and tomorrow because I'm studying abroad in a country that doesn't celebrate Halloween… and I want a jello brain shot, damn it.

* * *

1 - (Fastnacht in Germany): the most fun you will ever have without dying.

2 – (Mathias as Denmark's human name): I saw this name in a fic once, but I wasn't sure if it was spelled right, etc, so I went to the wiki, wherein I found that DENMARK HAS NO HUMAN NAME. This was such a great shock that I even _thought_ the word 'what' grammatically incorrectly: "WUT?" Anyway, Mathias is the sixth most popular baby boy name in Denmark, according to babynamefacts dot com, and so I used it.

3 – (Lukas (Lu-KAH) as Norway's human name): Somewhat less surprised that Norway doesn't have a name too. Top 2008 baby boy name in that country. After this point, though, I give up. Iceland is Iceland.

4 – (The Exorcist Drinking Game):http:/ occultcinema. blogspot. com/ 2008/04/ get-drunk-with-exorcist. html [remove spaces]**. **


	3. And Long Leggity Beasties

**From Ghoulies and Ghosties**  
la-russophile  
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia  
» Rating: T  
» On Going(WIP)/One-off/Series: WIP  
» Classification(s): Action/Adventure, Supernatural, Humor  
» Warnings: Language, Sexual Situations  
» Pairing(s): The usual suspects.  
» Summary: Now completely Out Of Season (OOS)! The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. Featuring 'Denmark and Prussia Go to the Liquor Store' ©, LindaBlair!Iceland, Belarus as a floor shark, Turkey-nomming Greek cats, and much, much more.

* * *

And Long-Leggity Beasties

* * *

"_Italien_."

"Mmhm."

"Feliciano, we've arrived."

"Hrn..." The Italian's eyes blinked slowly open. "_Che_?" he pouted, still not completely awake.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Ludwig's mouth, but he maintained a stern expression. "We're home, and unless you plan to sleep here… no, that was a joke! _Italien!_"

In the end, Ludwig had to carry him again, Feliciano's head snuggled cozily into the German's shoulder and his arms wrapped loosely around his neck. He knocked softly at the door and was gratified when it opened with barely a pause. "_Ach_, Roder—what are you _wearing_?"

The blindingly-besequined and pomaded Austrian gave him a very cold look. "You're late. And Elizabeta chose our costumes."

If he had been a more crass nation, that is to say more like his older brother, Ludwig may have been tempted to cough out, "_Pussywhipped!"_ As it was, he was somewhat shocked the word even crossed his mind and mentally berated himself as he toed off his shoes and followed the retreating nation into the cheery halls of the German embassy.

Elizabeta was in the kitchen, idling over the sink where a few candy-sticky dishes remained. In the adjoining den, an old episode of Scooby-Doo was playing with the sound down. The laugh track swelled as Ludwig carefully lowered the Italian onto the loveseat; it took a moment to convince Feliciano that he wanted to let go of Ludwig, and in the end he dragged the German's jacket with him and spooned himself around it with a sleepy mumble. The small sleeping form of a child with what appeared to be brown Astroturf glued to his entire body was curled up in an armchair next to the loveseat, and a large plush tomato barely recognizable as Southern Italy lay on the floor, covered with a blanket and snoring softly.

Ludwig returned to the kitchen and gladly accepted the mug of hot cider that Roderich handed him. The three nations pulled out chairs and sat around the kitchen table, and, after a long sip, the German asked, "When did Peter and Lovino get here?"

"Oh, we've had quite the party without you," Elizabeta said with a smile, her lips an exaggerated shiny apple red. It clashed horribly with her blue rhinestone glasses. "We agreed to watch Peter for Tino earlier today, so it was going to be just the three of us."

"Then Lovino ran in looking for asylum," Roderich added, taking a sip himself. "Spain dressed him like that and then demanded he go out dancing with him. _Schwachsinnige_." As he spoke, Ludwig's attention was caught once more by his hair. That hair! It had literally gained five inches of volume off his head, sweeping up and down in a slick wave of ridiculous proportions. Never mind the jumpsuit and tassels, the hair was just _wahnsinnig_.

While he was distracted, Elizabeta had gone on. "And after _that_, Sadip swung by with Northern Cyprus. They had the cutest matching costumes! Even Seychelles and Lietchenstein stopped in for a bit while they were trick-or-treating. They managed to somehow loose Vash in the city, but they remembered that you had a house here and we were able to point them home."

"Speaking of lost brothers, I see you don't have yours. Is he gone for good, I hope?" Roderich asked with raised eyebrows.

The German pinched the bridge of his nose to try and quell the headache that threatened at the very mention of Gilbert. "I left him alive and whole at the American's party."

"_Tragikus_," Elizabeta sighed.

"And sure not to last, 'Liza. If anyone in this world has more talent for getting into trouble, you and I have yet to meet him."

* * *

[_Schwachsinnige – imbecile; __wahnsinnig__ – mindboggling; Tragikus – tragic_]

* * *

"Oh holy _Gott_, I think I'm dying! Dänemark, Dänemark, are you there? Bring out the holy wafer! Read me my latht riteth!" The cold wind whistling in and out of the Prussian's strained lungs felt like fire, and he had his eyes squeezed shut in pain as his chest heaved and his abused legs muscles twinged and shook. He lay spread eagle in the soft dirt of a frostbitten flowerbed, next to a fountain filled with dead leaves.

The idiot Dane, who was sprawled in a similar position next to him, panted out a slightly hysterical laugh. "We escaped! We're alive! We were not chopped to bits by the Arrowed Green Lantern Head!"

"But where the hell are we?" the Prussian wheezed out. "We ran for hourth!" It had been more like forty minutes, the Green Arrow proving extremely persistent in his homicidal intent. They'd finally lost him by jumping brick fences, one after the other, until they reached a park and jumped behind the fountain. Now, they were exhausted, bloody and covered in mud, but at least they were alive.

Mathias moaned pitifully. "And it's so cold! Can't feel m'fingers, Preussen; _e__r så slemt_?"

Gilbert twisted his head to the side and managed to grin at the Dane. "_Nein, nein_. It's only too late when you can't feel your di—"

Had the two been less wrapped up in their own bodily misery, they might have heard the approaching footsteps. As it was, Gilbert's eyes shot wide as a voice just above his left ear said, "_Eho_, gentlemen. Tiptoeing through the tulips, are we?"

He looked up and for a moment, all he saw was green. He was still so breathless that all he managed was a shrill shriek reminiscent of a hamster being stepped on. The hazy mass of green resolved itself into a sphere; Gilbert kept screaming, just in case it remained necessary. The airheadedly smiling face in the center of the green sphere, and Mathias's closed fist swinging into his stomach, finally stopped the noise.

"Onkel... Rom?" he coughed out, hardly daring to believe his refocused eyes.

Then: "… are you drethed ath a giant M&M?"

"I am!" The once-great nation confirmed, grabbing Gilbert by the arm and jerking him to his feet. "As you younguns would say, the chickens dig it."

"Chicks, _ret_?" Mathias corrected, sitting up. "Preussian's Onkel, I am quite sure that they don't. You look like a fifth-grader. Or a _pædofil_."

"Nonsense!" the Roman exclaimed cheerfully, helping him up as well. "Now, why were you in the flowerbed? You can tell Uncle."

Gilbert waved his arms wildly. "Thome crazy fuck in green accothted uth with a crothbow!"

"That… sounds somehow familiar," the Roman said slowly. "Go on."

"Then he chathed uth with an ax for mileth after we broke hith crothbow!"

The Roman winced. "That sounds _painfully _familiar, actually. But! Boys, I think I have the solution for you."

Despite themselves, Mathias and Gilbert found themselves leaning in as the Roman beckoned them closer, putting a friendly puffy-white-gloved hand on each of their shoulders.

"Listen to me, boys," he said, glancing from side to side before lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The three necessities in this world are booze, drugs and women. You can substitute many things for that last one, but believe Uncle when I tell you that nice, compliant, ax-less non-Germanic women are the best. Now, if you stand on that corner," and here he pointed to a dimly lit curb on the other side of the street, "you should get all three in short order. _Bonam noctem_!"

And the ancient, possibly senile nation released them and wandered off into the cold night, singing some old song only he knew the words too. Mathias and Gilbert stared after him until the darkness swallowed him whole.

"Your uncle… is _en galning_," the Dane pronounced solemnly.

"_Ja_, I know."

* * *

[_E__r så slemt? – Is that bad?; pædofil – pedophile; __en galning – a lunatic_]

* * *

Tino was worried.

They were more than halfway into the movie, and onscreen, nothing alarming had happened for quite some time. Sweden's arms were loose around him, and the other nation had relaxed into couch and seemed almost calm. The Finn risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Berwald's eyes had drifted nearly closed behind his glasses. He closed his own eyes in relief. No, there was nothing on that front to cause anxiety.

It was Iceland and Norway. They had yet to return to the living room, nor was there any sign that they would; after the crash and the few soft scuffles following it, no more sound had emerged from kitchen—but the kitchen light was still on; he could see a thin stripe of yellow against the dark wall of the hallway from where he sat. _Mitä ihmettä he tekevät?_

Experimentally, Tino shifted forward against Berwald's slackened grip and was relieved when the other nation allowed him to. He attempted to rise to his feet, and could only sigh as a still half-asleep Swede instantly clung to him. The nation's eyes slid further open, and he squinted up at the Finn with an expression that on normal people might have been sweetly sleepy or adorably confused. On the Swede it could only be described as a deathly glare. "Hn…? Wh't's h'pp'ning?"

Tino swallowed, telling himself that under there somewhere was adorable sweetness. Adorible sweetness! "I want to check on Lukas and Iceland. They've been gone for so long… that I… er…" The deathly glare was only increasing in intensity. "Really, I'll be just a se—"

The door to the kitchen swung open with a long, drawn-out creak of hinges.

Both of the nations turned in the direction of the noise, as a man-shaped shadow imposed itself on the square of light projecting on the hallway wall. The light clicked off, and the shadow disappeared.

Slow dragging footsteps made their way down the short hallway, and Tino became aware of being unable to breathe as Sweden arm's tightened like vises around him. A figure stepped into the pool of light cast by the television, and Tino managed a short gasp.

It was Iceland, and he was covered in something dark and dripping. His hands, his feet, and a few smears on his face were a slick purple in the flickering blue light of the screen, and his eyes were huge and fixed on his wet fingers. Tino leapt like a salmon out of Berwald's grip and ran to him.

"Iceland! _Iceland_! Are you alright? Where's Lukas?" He grabbed his hands, and the smaller nation mumbled something soft and inaudible and curled his fingers around Tino's. The Finn turned to the lone nation still on the couch. "We're going back to the kitchen. No, stay _here_, I'll be just a second, _okei?_ I just need to find Lukas."

The Swede, who had been in the midst of rising, slowly sat back down as Tino guided the younger nation back down the hallway and out of sight. The Icelander left dark, distinct footprints on the wood floor.

Onscreen, sudden dramatic music rang out, and Berwald turned his head just in time to see the possessed girl scuttling in a crabwalk backwards down the stairs. A close-up of her contorted, rictus grin had him pressing wide-eyed back into the cushions, clutching a Finn-replacement pillow to his chest.

* * *

[_Mitä ihmettä he tekevät? - __What on earth are they doing_?]

* * *

"Gilbert."

"_Ja_?"

The Dane looked at him, dragging on the filter of his very last, end of the carton, no-stubs-in-his-pockets-and-no-one-to-bum-off cigarette. "We've been waiting here for a while now."

"_Ja_." The Prussian was sitting on the curb with his arms around his knees, head resting sideways across them.

Uncle Rome's questionable state of mind aside, the Prussian and the Dane had found themselves by unspoken agreement loitering on the darkened street corner for a bit longer than absolutely necessary, but it had been close to half an hour now and the Dane's unspoken agreement had run out some time ago. Adding to that, there was nothing but burnt synthetic fiber entering his lungs now. "I was just wondering—"

Gilbert lifted his head. "Thhhh, do you hear that?"

The Dane finally conceded the end of his smoke and flicked the butt into the street. "Ha ha, _meget sjovt._"

"_Ernsth, _Dänemark! Don't you?"

After a moment of silence, Mathias did indeed hear something: the sound of a motor, a large one, approaching from an unseen end of the street. He looked up, and one of the signs jutting out of the brick sidewalk was indeed a metropolitan bus stop sign.

"Are we supposed to catch the bus?" he wondered out loud as he climbed to his feet with Gilbert, a hand on his neck as he tried to stretch out the kinks.

"_Vielleicht_," Gilbert shrugged.

The noise of the motor grew nearer, and Mathias was aware of another sound growing along with it: the sort of dull roar that only hundreds of conversations going at once could produce. It wasn't until the vehicle in question lumbered into view that the Dane understood the implications of the two sounds in the same place, and he began to back away from the street as the bus sagged to a stop in front of them. "Er, Preussen—"

The doors of the bus burst open, and all hell broke loose.

Logically, there could only probably be seventy, perhaps a hundred people on a bus meant to seat forty. As the rushing, running streams of people battered, bruised and drug him bodily away from the curb, they seemed to number in the thousands, their painted faces and howling, drunken voices recalling his battles against Arthur's woad-dyed peoples all those centuries ago. The press of bodies swept him away and into the side of a tall stone retaining wall, where it pinned him. "Preussen!" he tried to call out, but the noise of the crowd swallowed his yell. The situation was growing dire as the volume of people swelled and he was crushed harder and harder into the wall; any second now, he was going to go under, and _lort_, people _died_ in stampedes—

Damn that Russian bastard, anyway. Who the hell drinks twenty-two highballs and stays upright? !

"_¡Upita!_" shouted a cheerful voice, and Mathias suddenly found himself hoisted by the armpits out of the thronging crowd and pulled onto the top of the wall he had been crushed against. He tilted his head back and was looking into the smiling face of Spain, oddly enough sporting curly horns of some kind. "_¡Hola, _Dinamarca_! ¿Qué diablos estás haciendo aquí?_"

Mathias was silent for a moment, as passengers pressed past his still dangling legs and the hue and riot below them grew. "… I don't suppose you have booze, drugs and women, do you?"

The Spainard tilted his head to the side, quizzically. "Well, I have a few bottles, yes, and Holanda has plenty of drugs as well. As for the having of women, you will have to ask _mi_ Bélgica herself." He nodded over to their right, to where Holland and Belgium were bodily hauling Gilbert up by his flailing limbs. "She is very particular, though, I warn you."

Gilbert clawed his way away from the edge and collapsed in the dead grass next to Antonio, his head in the Spaniard's lap. "_Mein Gott_! 'Tonio, I thought I was dead! Why are you wearing a shag rug?"

The Spainard laughed and pet his head. "For so many years I've been_ el torero, _but this year I decided, why not be _el toro_ instead? What, you do not like my costume?"

"It's very… fuzzy," the Prussian said, spitting out some of that fuzz.

"Eh, you sound like Lovino. Ay, he was so cute in his tomato suit this year! Just as he is every year."

"Poor kid," Gilbert mumbled under his breath.

"Hah?"

In lieu of an answer, Gilbert each up and tugged at Antonio's furry sleeve. "_Na, so_, what did you do instead of coming to the American's house?"

"Well, let's see," Antiono began, bracing his hands behind him and letting his head fall back, grinning goofily up at the night sky. "I lost my poor Lovino, but found my dearest Low Countries!"

Half of the Low Countries in question rolled their eyes, and the other half simply continued to smoke the long, thin pipe he had produced from somewhere on his person. Seeing Mathias's longing glance, he passed it over. It made the Dane's eyes water.

"We went many places, raves, clubs, the campus, someone's apartment. I tell you, America is not the place to have a holiday. So many policemen! One party had a drink limit, do you hear? And that bus was horrendous. We waited for hours, and when the bus came the driver wouldn't let us on!"

Belgium rubbed at the pale green glitter dusting her face. "_C'est vrai_. The crowd had nearly tipped it over before he opened the door."

"You almost toppled a bus?" Mathias started to laugh. "I wish I was there, we would have rolled it to the river!" He passed the pipe back to Holland, and the nation gave him a little baggy of brightly-colored something. Mathias scooped out a few before passing it to the prone Gilbert, who ate one, made a face and mumbled, "Th'thnot a Thmartie."

"And then, I had to ride the entire way under a seat. Under it!"

"Brother sat on top of him," Belgium elaborated. "I sat on Hollande's lap. And a few people sat on top of me. We were, how do you say? _Entassés comme des sardines._"

"Why were you taking a bus here?" Gilbert asked, his head turned to tuck into the curve of Spain's hip.

The Spaniard stared down at him. "Eh?"

"Why here? Is there anything _überwältigend _around?"

Antonio looked at him to a moment longer, then turned his gaze back to the sky, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder…"

The Low Countries exchanged looks of deep exasperation. "I knew it!" Belgium said, her accent thickening in pique. "Zere was no reason to get on zat bus, was zere?" The fairy wings attached to her back shook indignantly.

Spain smiled winningly. "It seemed like a good idea?"

"_He daar_."

The nations all looked over to the previously silent Holland. The nation pointed.

"The street. 'S empty."

"Ah, so it is," Antonio said, and without further ado he propped Gilbert upright and scooted off the top of the retaining wall, back onto the brick sidewalk. "Ah~," he inhaled deeply, and stretched out his arms to the night. "Now that we're all together, _queridos amigos_, what shall we do?"

And that was when the Green Arrow leapt out of the bushes with two pistols.

* * *

[_meget sjovt – very funny; Ernst – seriously; __Vielleicht__ – Maybe; lort – shit; Upita – Upsy-Daisy; Hola, _Dinamarca_! ¿Qué diablos estás haciendo aquí? – Hello, Denmark! What the hell are you doing here?; __überwältigend__ – awesome…?; Entassés comme des sardines – packed in like sardines; queridos amigos – dear friends]_

_

* * *

_

As it happened, Greece's embassy was only a few houses down from the Turkish ambassador's place. After tucking in Cyprus, Sadiq couldn't resist a little nighttime stroll in that direction, and the short pause under the only lit window of course couldn't be helped. The breaking and entering might possibly have been prevented, but the damn lazy Greek had somehow managed to evade him all evening, even in his blindly cute kitten costume, and the Turk was going to see him in it, close up, if it was the last thing he did.

Rounding a corner in an upstairs hallway, he was met by a tiny grey tabby-striped cat padding towards him from the opposite direction. It mewed at him, a thin, cute little noise.

"Awww," he cooed, crouching down to scritch the small thing under the chin. "Hello, _kedi yavrusu_—"

"_Merroow!"_

He looked over his shoulder. Another cat— this one an orange marmalade— had appeared behind him. It cocked its head and stared with an unwavering intensity that was slightly spooky.

Still, it was just as adorable as the tabby. He pivoted on the toe of his boot and was reaching out to pet it when a chorus of meows rang out from the direction he'd just turned. He looked back, and five more cats of varying shades and ages had joined the tabby.

"Well, aren't you all such pretty kitties," he said uneasily. They watched him with large, unblinking eyes, and Sadiq felt a slight chill at the expression glinting in them. They all looked so oddly…

Hungry.

He glanced back at the marmalade and nearly jumped out of his skin; he was now facing more than twenty cats, and as he watched, more tricked out of the open doorways lining the hall to join the growing, seething crowd. The meows were growing louder, too, and now they struck a sinister cord in his ear.

"Ah… _g__üzel kediler?__İyi kediler_?" he tried, rising slowly to his feet. The cats followed him, pressing in a close circle around his feet. There were so many of them! They flooded into the hallway from all directions, until he couldn't see the carpeted floor for furry bodies and gleaming, staring eyes.

"Er, Greece?" he called out softly, swallowing against panic as the cats backed him into the wall, meows growing lower and more intense with every second. "Heracles? _Merhaba_?" One of the soft bodies brushed against his leg, and he jumped back into the plaster with a thump. "Heracles!"

The circling cats began scratching at his pant legs, their needlesharp claws digging easily into the skin beneath. He yelped and tried to shake them off, but for every demon cat he got rid of two took its place. They were starting to climb him, the din of yowls, mews, wails and howls ringing in his ears like the bells of hell.

"HERACLES! _Tanrım, ben ölmek istemiyorum_—!"

The small tabby leapt for his face, and Sadiq managed one short, terrified scream before the meowing tide buried him completely.

* * *

[_kedi yavrusu – kitten; g__üzel kediler?__İyi kediler? – Good cats? Nice cats?; __Merhaba – hello; Tanrım, ben ölmek istemiyorum-! – (Oh) God, I don't want to die-!_]

* * *

**A/N: Lesson learned: the Greek embassy is a dangerous place. Do not come without tuna.**

**Yeah, Team Me did not give a very good showing last week. First I said Nov. 1****st****, then by the next weekend, and now, yes, I think I'll shoot to finish this (after here, one more short chapter, then an epilogue) by the middle of next week. It's now totally out of season! If it wasn't so much fun to write… but it is. XD**


	4. And Things That Go Bump In the Night

**From****Ghoulies****and****Ghosties**  
la-russophile  
» Summary: The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. Featuring 'Denmark and Prussia Go to the Liquor Store' ©, LindaBlair!Iceland, Belarus as a floor shark, Turkey-nomming Greek cats, and much, much more.

* * *

**And Things that Go Bump in the Night**

* * *

"Merry Halloween," Alfred said shortly, and shoved the cosmically wasted Englishman trying to perform a striptease in his hallway into Francis's surprised arms. He slammed the guestroom room on the Frenchman's lecherous, "_Oh __la __la, __mon __petit __lapin, __tellement __risqué__…__!_" and turned back to his remaining guests.

Well, guest. Ivan smiled peaceably down at him, the only nation left standing; the four of them had left Katerina in the library, petting and shaking the unconscious Natalia while sobbing something about catching cold and never waking up. Francis and Arthur were finally behind closed doors, although some yelling and thumping was still audible. Lord knew where the Dane and Gilbert were; he hoped he wouldn't be getting an angry call from his boss in the morning about defaced monuments or someshit.

No, there was just the smiling, stone-cold-sober nation of Russia, standing in his hall, being big and creepy as per usual.

Hmmm. Big and creepy.

"Have I got the perfect room for _you_," he said gleefully, clapping the taller nation on the back as he moved past him. "Absolutely _perfect_. You'll love it."

"My only request is _myesta_ far away from this one," the Russian said politely as he fell in step. There was a loud crash from the room behind them, and a string of filthy curses.

Alfred winced. "Yeah, right."

The room he brought Ivan to was ideal for several reasons. It was at the end of the hall, as far away from his own room and the stairs as possible. All the furniture was ass-ugly and old as Artie. The dominant color was a milky mauvy pink. The mattress was rock-hard and probably made of horsehair or something equally historic and disgusting. Best of all, though, was that the bed was an enormous four-poster with a little ladder you needed to climb up into it, and so he could protest that he was thinking only of his unnecessarily enormous guest's comfort.

Alfred flung open the door with a dramatic flourish and strode in, shooting Ivan a guileless grin over his shoulder. "Whatdya think?"

The Russia ducked a bit to avoid the doorframe and stepped in after him. "It is…"

Alfred turned to face him, blinking innocently. "Yes?"

Ivan's expression was a study in sourness. "… the same room you gave me the last time I stayed here."

"Ah, really?" he asked. "I'd forgotten." He had, actually. Phooey, no grimaces of horrified surprise for America. "Well, then you should be able to settle in without me."

The Russian had moved to the bed and now tested the mattress with a hand. It appeared to have all the give of plywood. "_Amerika_…" he growled.

"Goodnight!" he said cheerfully, and made it all the way to door before Ivan grabbed him.

"The last time I slept in this— this _urodlivaya __vesh__'_, I could not stand straight for _weeks_. Vladya and Misha laughed and called me _babulitchka_."

"Uh, bummer?" Alfred tried. "Sorry, Braginsky, but y'know, they just don't make beds like they used—"

As his sudden pause stretched, Ivan tilted his head quizzically. "_Ameri__—__?__"_

"Shoosh," Alfred told him, putting up a finger.

He was staring out into the dark hallway, certain he'd heard something moving. Goddamn it, if Arthur had escaped Francis's clutches and was running around naked again—

A faint rustle, and something dragging slowly against the carpet.

Alfred swallowed, and forced out, "Old man?"

Nothing.

"Hey," he called, shaking off Ivan's hands and moving into the doorway. "Artie?" Squinting, he could just see a figure sprawled out on the runner, about halfway from the stairs to where he stood. He stepped forward just as the figure lifted its head, long straight hair matted over its face, and moaned, "_Braaaaaat__…__?_"

There was a muffled yelp behind him, and Alfred spun to see Ivan _vault __the __fucking __giant __bed_ and start tearing uselessly at the window above it. "What the fuck? Braginsky?"

"_Why __won__'__t __it __open?_" the glorious nation of Russia screamed.

"Dude, chill! It's painted shut, okay?"

Alfred looked back, just in time to see Natalia give an open-mouthed, inhuman howl and lunge forward, moving much, much faster than a human body should be able to crawling on it stomach. "HOLY SHIT!"

He'd barely made it onto the bed when one clawed hand shot up over the side, talon-like nails scraping down the embroidered coverlet as it fell back. Ivan, the goddamn humongous freak, was taking up way too fucking much of the middle of the bed and if he thought for a moment he could force Alfred off and run while his crazy sister was distracted— "_Braaaaaaaaaaat__…"_

"Is she saying _brains__?_" Alfred shrieked. It was a very manly shriek.

"Unfortunately, no," Ivan answered tightly, fighting to stay in the center as Alfred crowded him. "That would sound more like _mozgiiiiiiiiiii._"

The deranged Belarusian actually managed to wrench a shoulder over the foot of the bed before falling back to the floor, and Alfred scrambled into Ivan lap. A clawed hand shot up to fist in the coverlet, and six legs cringed back from the edge.

Six?

"Why are there three pairs of legs in this bed?" Alfred asked. "Did Chernobyl mutate you or something?"

"IT'S CANADA, GODDAMNIT!" Matthew howled inches from his ear. "Braginsky, _why_ the _**FUCK**_ is your sister _trying __to __eat __us_?"

"Ah, ghost boy!" said the Russian in ingenuine surprise. "Well. When Natasha is tipsy, she tends to get a bit… angry_._ I can only blame her upbringing," he sighed, backing up further into the stiff, musty-smelling pile of pillows at the head of the bed.

"Didn't _you_ raise her?" Alfred asked incredulously.

The Russian gave a careless shrug. "_Nu,__da._"

"_Braaaaat_, _idi __suda_," came the low growl from the beyond the bed. The scrabbling noise her nails made on the wooden frame was probably the creepiest thing the American had ever heard.

"Ohgodohgodohgod," he whimpered, clutching at the Russian. "I'm going to be eaten by a zombie floor shark and it's your fucking fault!"

And Ivan was smiling. _He __was __fucking __smiling_ and it was only a little smile, barely noticeable but as there was _nothing __at __all __funny _about being eaten _alive_. Alfred glared at him. "What the flying fuck are you smirking about?"

"Oh, nothing," he answered, smile widening as the wild snarls from floor caused both North Americans to cringe closer. He tightened his arms around them and chuckled.

From his position curled in the Russian nation's lap, Matthew's legs over his, Alfred scowled up at him darkly. "It's not freakin' funny, you stupid commie! We'll be stuck like this all night!"

At that, the Russian looked even more pleased. "Do you think so?"

Matthew rolled his eyes at his brother's sputtered response, then yelped and wiggled closer as Natalia grabbed at the back of his shirt. "Fuck my life."

* * *

[brat - брать - brother; myesta – место – place/space; urodlivaya vesh' - уродливая вещь – deformed/monstrous thing; Vladya and Misha – Vladimir Putin and Dmitri Medvedev; _babulitchka__– _hilariously cutesy way to say grandmother; idi suda - иди суда - come here]

* * *

On the outside, Berwald's expression was that of a man mildly annoyed by poor weather.

On the inside, the Swede's stolid Protestant ethics had been offended to the point of gibbering incomprehension, the oversaturation point for obscenity reached more than half an hour before this point. The Finn-replacement pillow was losing stuffing at an alarming rate, and the Finn himself was nowhere to be found. Where was he? Where were the others? How could they have left him alone with this, this _monstrosity_? All he'd wanted was to drink beer and watch reruns of _På __spåret__!_ Yaaaaagh, what was she doing with her _tongue__?_

All these thoughts, and more, circulated in increasingly panicked loops through the mind of the immobile and stonefaced spectator that was the Swedish nation.

The priests had gathered by the girl's bedside for the final exorcism and were preparing to begin when the kitchen door reopened. The sound didn't register above the chanting on screen, and so when Iceland shambled into Berwald's peripheral vision the Finn-replacement pillow was rent asunder.

The smaller nation didn't so much as glance at him. His hands and feet were, if anything, even more coated in that strange black substance from before, and he left a sticky trail as he tottered his way around the coffee table before he half sat, half collapsed onto the floor where he'd started the evening, and watched the priests begin to pray with that curiously flat, blank stare of his.

Berwald took a few silent, steadying breaths as his heartbeat returned from the stratosphere. When it became clear that the other nation was not going to speak, he ventured a quiet, "'sl'nd."

No reaction.

"'_sl__'__nd._"

Not even a twitch.

Sweden leaned forward, and reached out to touch Iceland on the shoulder. ""'sl—"

"_Já, __Svíþjóð_?" the nation suddenly responded, without turning around. Sweden's hand hovered uncertainly over his thin back.

"Wh'r're th'thers?"

The nation did not respond for so long that Sweden repeated, "Th'thers?"

Finally, Iceland responded. "They've… gone to sleep."

"Th'went t'bed?" Berwald repeated, confused.

Iceland gave no indication he heard him, and after a moment Berwald rose slowly from the couch. "M'gonna check on th'm," he announced to the room at large.

His eyes were drawn back to the dark, wet footprints Iceland had left on the carpet, and he followed them back across the room and down the hallway to the black maw of the unlit kitchen. He swallowed against his own frantic pulse and caught himself hesitating, hand poised just over the lightswitch. The great Kingdom of Sweden, undone by a silly, stupid American horror movie—

In the sudden glare of the overhead lights, the thick red liquid pooled around Tino's body looked almost syrupy.

"_Svíþjóð__…_"

Berwald slowly turned his head to meet Iceland's blank stare. Nothing but static showed on the screen behind him.

"You missed the ending," Iceland informed him, getting to his feet.

* * *

[Já – yes; Svíþjóð – Sweden]

* * *

"I TELL YOU, WE MUTHT HIDE IN THE THANDBOX! THE THANDBOX, DAMNIT! HE'LL NEVER FIND UTH HERE!"

"… you're crazy," Mathias decided, staring down at Gilbert as he flailed around in the children's sandpit. Gilbert glared back at him, eyes wide and a little wild with whatever the Belgian had slipped him at the bus stop— which was some five sprinted kilometers away from the abandoned playground where they now found themselves. Mathias's drunk was wearing off, and he was starting to find the Running-Circles-Around-D-C situation irritating rather than exhilarating.

"Get in the thandbox!" Gilbert hissed. "He'll _thee _you!"

Mathias was saved from answering by a sudden shrill buzz from his pocket. He allowed the other nation to tug him down to his knees as his fished out his phone and flipped it open to see who was calling at—Jesus, at three thirty on All Saint's Day.

Weird. It was Sverige.

"Weird. It's Sverige," he told Gilbert as he obediently hunkered down behind the sand wall the Prussian was carefully shoring up with landscaping stones and mulch. He hit the answer button. "_Hej_, what's—wait, wait a minute, Sver, I can't understa—what do you mean they're dead? Who's dead?"

It was difficult to parse what Sweden said even when he _wasn__'__t_ babbling in terror, and Mathias was only catching one out of every five words the Swede yelled in his ear. "The kitchen? What do American movies have to do with the kitchen? Who _died_?"

The other nation's voice cut off suddenly, and after a pause Mathias prompted, "Sverige? Are you there?"

There was a sound that might have been a gurgle, and then— silence.

"Hello? _Hello?_ HEL-_LOOOOO_— oh _hej_, Iceland. What's with Sverige?

"_Svíþjóð __is __sleeping. __You __should __come __home __now, __Dänemark.__"_

"Oh?" he said, laughing a little as he rolled to his feet. "_Helt __sikkert_, I'll come home now."

"But Dänemark! We haven't vanquished the Green Lantern!" Gilbert whined, plastic fangs ruining his pout. Mathias patted him on the head.

"Somehow, _kære_ Preussen, you'll have to continue the struggle without me," he said dryly, and trotted away into the early morning chill.

* * *

[helt sikkert – sure thing; kære Preussen – dear Prussia]

* * *

"Hey, Ivan."

The Russian's eyes opened too quickly and were far too focused for him to have been asleep. "_Da,__Kanada_?"

"Is she still there?"

Taking care not to jostle the American snoring openmouthed on his shoulder, Ivan reached for his purple velvet tophat. Slowly extending his arm out over the side of the bed, he waited a beat, then dropped it to the floor below.

The resulting maddened snarl and loud ripping noises had him retracting the arm rather quickly.

"That's a yes, then," Matthew sighed, from his position on Ivan's other side. He kicked Alfred reflexively as the snoring reached an unbearable level, and was rewarded with a pained, "_Hambrngrrrmph__…__!_"

* * *

Hong Kong was just sitting down to hotpot when his phone buzzed. "Don't answer that," Wang Yao snapped.

He rolled his eyes and waited until the older nation was distracted before checking his phone under the table. Disappointingly, it was just another drunk text from Iggy-zūnshàng.

_hbppy hallowen hk!1! tel ur mom I said fcuk u lol_

While he was reading it, somewhere within the voluminous Kiku-rénxiōng's autumn obi came the chiming tones of his own phone. The nation gave Wang Yao an apologetic look, opened his own phone, winced, and closed it again.

"Iguru-san wishes us all a felicitous All Hallows Eve," he said diplomatically. "And… something about ghouls and ghosts?"

"Westerners," Wang Yao sniffed.

"It's not summer anymore, after all," Kiku agreed.

"I miss candy corn," Hong Kong muttered.

* * *

[zūnshàng – 尊上 - Chinese honorific, 'father'; rénxiōng – 仁兄 – 'elder brother; in Japan at least and possibly Asia in general, it is summer rather than autumn that's associated with the dead]


	5. Good Lord, Deliver Us!

**From Ghoulies and Ghosties**  
la-russophile  
» Summary: The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. Featuring 'Denmark and Prussia Go to the Liquor Store' ©, LindaBlair!Iceland, Belarus as a floor shark, Turkey-nomming Greek cats, and much, much more.

* * *

**Good Lord, Deliver Us!**

* * *

"Mr. Edelstein!"

Too loud, and _mein_ _Gott_ so bright- even with his eyes closed the sunlight was searing through his lids and blasting his eyeballs. The sand was cool and gritty under his cheek when he tried to bury his face further into it.

"Oi, Mr. Edelstein! I found him!"

Ohhh God, what had he done last night to deserve_ Sealand_ first thing in the morning?

"He looks kinda dead."

"_Does _he?" The damned Austrian sounded quite pleased at the prospect. "Would you check, Peter?"

Something poked him in the side, hard, and Gilbert curled in on himself like a wounded caterpillar. "Owww, you little _Blag,_" he moaned pathetically.

"That is really too bad," Roderich sighed, and reached for his phone.

* * *

[blag - brat]

* * *

"_Ja, __ja_. I'll be right there. _Danke_, Roderich." Ludwig hung up and brought a hand to his temple, massaging the small ache that was already starting to form there. Damn his brother, anyway.

He was searching in the hallway closet for his coat when the front door opened, and footsteps sounded in the foyer. "_Allo __allo_, is anyone home?"

Ludwig glanced around the closet door and smiled. "Vash, there you are! Come to get Liechtenstein?"

The Swiss nation nodded, coming to a stiff parade rest at the edge of the tiled entrance-way. He had a plastic bag in one hand and was idly twirling something long and thin between his fingers. "Yes, if she's ready. Ah, you're leaving?" he asked when Ludwig closed the door and came towards him, jacket in hand.

"It's Gilbert," he explained, and that was really all he needed to say. Vash's eyes narrowed.

"Where _did_ he end up, last night?"

Ludwig's lips thinned in an expression of tight annoyance. "At a playground in Foggy Bottom, apparently."

"Foggy Bottom," Vash said thoughtfully, stroking the fletches of the arrow that he held.

"Brother!" Liechtenstein said from the top of the stairs. "Where _were_ you?"

"Never too far away, sister," he said, and slotted the arrow back into his bag.

* * *

[danke - thanks]

* * *

When Denmark finally made it to the Swedish Embassy, he only managed two steps and a bright, "_Hej, __elskers_—" before slipping and falling on his ass.

"_Aaav!_ What the—" He pulled his hand off the floor and it came up with a sticky sucking noise, red smeared all over the palm. "What the _fuck_…?"

The kitchen looked like a war zone, bloody spatters everywhere and drag patterns streaked through the still crimson pool in the middle the floor. Mathias swallowed, and gingerly levered himself up. The kitchen was deserted, but several sets of footprints led deeper into the house; he toed off his shoes and followed them.

In the living room, the television was on and the handset was hanging off the hook, red smeared over the white plastic. The footsteps milled around the phone, then climbed the stairs towards the bedrooms. Mathias climbed after them, into the din upstairs hallway, and branched left to stop at a door before looping back to a room on the right. He chose right, walked in step with footsteps until they disappeared under a door. There was a perfect bloody handprint overlaying the handle and he winced as it smudged under his fingers.

The door was locked, not very surprisingly. He rattled the knob and tried, "Sverige? Are you alive?"

No answer. The house settled around him, silence broken only by small creaks in the floorboards and the occasional rattle of pipes.

"Huh," he said, and turned around just in time to see a crazy-eyed Sverige start the swing that would have taken Mathias's head.

"_KORS I RøVEN_!" He ducked and rolled, the sword biting into the wall where his neck had been. "What the ever-loving— Sver! It's me!"

"AAAAAGH," the Swede answered, and dove after him, down the stairs at back into the living room.

"Holy God, Sver, you're the one who called me!" he swore, edging around the couches to keep as much space between him and the madman. "_You_ called _me_, yammering about dead bodies and— _eek!_" he squeaked as Berwald drove the sword through the cushions, almost skewering him.

Mathias didn't see that he had a choice, and after dodging the next wild lunge he tackled Berwald to the ground, trying to wrestle the sword away from him. "I though this thing was in storage, anyway! Did you kill them? If you've killed Norge, Sverige—"

"Oh. It's Anko," came an expressionless voice from the stairs.

Mathias rolled them over and when he saw Norway standing there he grinned hugely. "Norge! You're okay!"

Under him, Sweden went still. "L'kas?"

"Hn." The nation turned around and made to walk back upstairs.

"_L'kas—!_ G'roff, Den," and suddenly Mathias found himself airborne. Luckily he missed the glass coffee table.

"Th'ght y'were dead," Berwald was saying to Norge, awkwardly holding the sword in front of him. "Y'just v'nished— an' th'blood—"

"Blood?"

The taller nation gestured mutely to the footprints.

Norway was giving him the kind of look normally reserved for Denmark and Denmark alone. "Iceland dropped a bottle of grenadine on the floor. I told him to clean it up, and I went to bed."

Mathias choked, started to laugh, but that all ended abruptly as Sweden's sword imbedded itself in the wall behind his head. "Goddamnit, Sver!"

"Tino," the Swede said urgently, coming up the stairs to where Lukas stood. "Wh'happ'ned t' Tino?"

"I'm fine, Berwald." The Finnish nation appeared at the top of the stairs, looking tired and bruised but hardly dead. 'I slipped and knocked my head, is all— _meep_," he said, like a mouse being stepped on, as Berwald walked very purposefully up the steps and grabbed him. "No, really, I'm fine now— _Berwald_, please put me down_…_"

As Tino's protests faded, Mathias looked up at Norway and beamed. "_Hu,_ now that we're alone—"

"Get out."

"But _Nooooorge__…__!__"_

* * *

[Hej, elskers – hello, darlings; av – ouch; kors i røven! – equ. Holy shit!]

* * *

Alfred woke slowly, and the first thing he saw when his eyes blinked open was Matthew's face. It was relaxed and open in sleep, in a way that reminded him of when they were children and had shared a bed on stormy nights. He smiled, softly, and reached out to nudge him awake.

Matthew opened his eyes, and they were cloudy for a moment before they focused on him; for a moment at least, Al could tell that his brother was thinking of the same thing he was.

Then Matthew's gaze drifted slightly downward, and shot comically wide.

"S'matter?" Alfred murmured, and at that moment Ivan grumbled, "_Tishye,__daragoi_," and burrowed his head deeper into Alfred's collarbone.

To say the American nation shot like a bottle rocket off the bed does not quite convey the energy and vehemence with which he departed Ivan's embrace and the rock-hard mattress. It was just his misfortune that he landed directly on top of Natalia where she had finally collapsed the night before.

"_Pamierci_," she growled, and Alfred wheezed, "_Help!_" as her small hands closed around his throat.

"I do not think so," Ivan decided, leaning over the edge. "If she eats you, perhaps she will no longer have room for me, _da?_"

"_C__'__mmie__b__'__strrrrrd__…"_ Al gurgled.

On the bed, Matthew stared disgustedly at the ceiling. How is this his life?

"Aim for the eyes, _Amerika._ It is her only weakness."

"S'riously f'ck'ng _h__'__te__yyh!__"_

"There'd better be candy left in the bowl," he muttered darkly.

"_Who__s__'__d__th__'__t_?"

"It's Canada, goddamnit!"

* * *

[tishye, daragoi – тише, дорогой – quiet, dear; pamierci – памерці - die]

* * *

**A/N: The end! :D This may have all seemed like crack to the power of ten, but most of the events in this story have actually happened to people I know. Even the Green Arrow story is legit. How awesome and mysterious is life?**


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